


Sweat, Not Skin

by Blake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Against a Wall, Dean's obsessed with Sam, Dirty Sex, M/M, background other-relationships, not exactly jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:50:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweat, Not Skin

It’s always jarring, the changes that have happened since the last time. It’s pulling his jeans off his hips and coming face to face with a new scar on his thigh. It’s thumbing the groove of his abdomen and feeling the flesh give less, a sleepless year lining the skin, iron just beneath the surface. It’s palm slicking through sweat until it catches on scabs, long, deep scratches down the length of his back. It’s knowing that it might have been some creature he took out, or it might have been a lover. It’s not caring who put those scratches there.

Either way, you’ll make his skin so slick with sweat that even scabs can’t keep your hand from sliding, out of control, free, same thing, down his spine to grab his ass and push him in deeper.

And that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it. Fucking so hard there’s sweat, not skin. Breathing so hard that vision’s blurry at the edges, the purple and white and pink of old scars blend in with the tan that always looks the same by the light of a hotel lamp.

There’s always the differences in how he moves. How he fucks. It’s him grabbing your hair to pull, which feels remembered and yours and right. Then, _Just a little-- let me-- oh fuck, yes, yeah, I like it like that, like that_ and your throat tightens, because you didn’t know he liked it like that. Last time, _he_ didn’t know he liked it like that. Somebody, since, showed him how he likes it. You find that spot, the one he pointed out, and you find it again and again, again until he doesn’t _know_ that he likes it like that, he only feels that he likes it.

It’s the angle of his spine, one time, when he arches his back so his ass is in the air, his balls and his cock hanging just above the bedspread like a mouthful you can’t reach. It scares you, the right-angle hook at the base of his spine, something you’ve never seen before. It’s an angle of anticipation. But only he knows what he’s anticipating, only he and whoever taught him to anticipate it.

You haven’t seen him for months. A year, and in that year, he’s picked up the habit of telling you he’s _so hard for you, so deep so far up inside you, can feel every inch of you so tight and slick_ while he’s so hard for you, so deep so far up inside you, feeling every inch of you so tight and slick. You don’t know where his talking came from, just like you don’t know why he’s avoiding putting weight on his left leg, which you’ve noticed. You’re going, taking him, beyond noticing.

Make him work for it. Bring him close, but he’s telling you he’s close. Throw him down, he lets you. Tells you you look so good riding his cock, he loves watching himself disappear inside of you. Bring him close again, his breaths getting harder, so hard you know his vision’s getting blurry at the edges.

Make him work for it. He’s holding you both up, at least mostly. You’re barely touching the wall. Just your head occasionally grazing it as he moves you with two huge hands on your hips so small they don’t stand a chance. He’s moving his own body, too. Apart, together. Pause. Apart, together. Touching his arm is touching sweat, not skin. There are fewer pauses now.

When you put him on his knees, prop your foot up on his thigh, hold your dick like a knife at his throat, he tells you how painfully badly and how hard he could come right now, but you can see that for yourself, see his body straining in frustrated protest at an angle, down there beside where your toes are curling in the hair on his thigh. He says he badly wants to suck your cock, and so you fill his mouth.

He looks perfect, sucks perfect, his hair so slicked back with sweat that in your blurry vision, it looks short like he’s twelve.

You’re so close you try to keep him down there but his shoulders force your ecstatic-weak hands out of the way and he’s towering over you again, spinning you and bending you enough to get back inside you, telling you he needs to be inside you, wants-tuh come when he’s there and you can feel him. More of you scrapes against the wallpaper, vision too blurry to see what design your mouth is mashed against.

He’s so worked up. Panting, moving like a machine, single-minded, and that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it. Fucking so hard there’s only single-minded. Only this. Only the slick of untouched skin and the blurry shadow of his un-aged features you look at as you come and the constant noise of your wordless grunts meeting each other every other beat, and it’s almost as if you’ve made everything better, almost as if you’ve given him everything he’s ever wanted and when you come, there are no scars.

In the moments before you open your eyes again to see your drool smeared across blue-outlined wallpaper whales, you think, _his is how it’s supposed to be_. He’s yours. He’s your brother. Only yours.


End file.
